The One that Stayed
by Maestro Gimp
Summary: For some, the Blight ended when the Archdemon lay smote upon Fort Drakon. For Ruairidh Cousland, it will never be over. Nightmares of the battle haunt him at every turn—nightmares that his brother-in-arms should share. But Alistair vanished after the Landsmeet. Now Ruairidh Cousland means to find him, and share in full the horror of the Archdemon.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The One that Stayed

Summary: For some, the Blight ended when the Archdemon lay smote upon Fort Drakon. For Ruairidh Cousland, it will never be over. Nightmares of the battle haunt him at every turn—nightmares that his brother-in-arms should share. But Alistair vanished after the Landsmeet. Now Ruairidh Cousland means to find him, and share in full the horror of the Archdemon.

Principal characters: m!Cousland, Zevran, Alistair

Genre: Hurt and betrayal, romance, friendship

Chapter: 1

Word count: 1689

Notes: Ruairidh is a Celtic name (keeping in the Cousland name theme) that is pronounced RO-urree. Also, I would love a beta reader if anyone has interest and spare time.

It was easy to forget how young Ruairidh Cousland actually was. Zevran had only ever seen him with a full, dark beard before the Blight, and he had assumed that it was the facial hair that matured the young man's face. But as Ruairidh Cousland stood before him now, clean-shaven, he realized it was something deeper. A heaviness weighed in Ruairidh's grey eyes, as if he'd lived a thousand summers. Ancient eyes. To have them upon you for too long was unsettling, and Zevran Arainai was not one to be easily ruffled.

Presently, Ruairidh was staring at him, like a wolf might a rabbit. The young man looked hungry, violent even, despite his new civil style. Since the end of the Blight, Ruairidh had been relieved of his boiled leather and plate, instead given velvets and silks. He did not look happy in velvets and silks, and Zevran had no doubt this was contributing to his frustration. The young man had been sullen, bordering on depressed, for the past few weeks, and now it was coming to a head.

"If looks could kill, yours certainly would. Alas, you may have to draw your sword, my lord." Zevran flashed a quick smile as he bowed.

Cousland looked away with a snort at Zevran's remark. "I am no lord, and I have no desire to kill you, Zevran. Not anymore, at least."

"I am flattered, truly. But I fear you are indeed a lord, for the queen's word is law. Who am I to contradict her Majesty? A teyrn you are, Bryce-son."

"Anora cannot violate Grey Warden law as she pleases in order to give me an unwanted title." Ruairidh turned to glare out the bay window of his bed chamber, some fifty feet above the reconstruction of Denerim. He did not need to add that there was little left of Highever over which to rule.

"She can, and she did, my lord," Zevran replied carefully. "But I suspect that this is not what has been troubling you of late. Your appetite is infamous, yet I have not seen you once take dinner. Words would never keep you from a meal."

Cousland did not immediately answer, instead studying the scene below intently. Most of Denerim proper had been turned around quickly, and a good portion of the shops and houses had been rebuilt in the noble district. But beyond the window's view, the Alienage remained in ruins without any government assistance. The idea of the elves living in the Blight's destruction was not improving Ruairidh's mood, so he faced Zevran again, crossing his arms.

"Do you ever think of old jobs?" Ruairidh asked. "That is to say, do they stay with you?"

Zevran was not quite sure what the Warden wanted as an answer. "Some of my work remains more poignant in my mind than others," he tried.

"But, do they stay with you? When you're talking to me, as you are now, are those jobs with you?"

"Do you speak of nightmares?" Zevran's brow knitted. While Ruairidh was tight-lipped, Alistair had talked at length about the Grey Wardens—at least, when he had ale in his hands. Zevran knew the grave significance of nightmares for the Wardens.

Cousland frowned, struggling. "Not exactly. It is not only in sleeping, but in waking that I speak of. Things that keep the mind occupied."

That was something Zevran understood. In Antiva, they called it _solciomi_. He did not know a Ferelden word that quite encompassed the whole meaning. _Solciomi_ could be experienced in love, anger, fear, and sorrow, as those emotions manifested in the mind's eye. Zevran's longing for the familiar had been touched with _solciomi_, and it had manifested in his love for Antivan leather. "Haunting thoughts," he murmured, and Cousland nodded his head.

"The Archdemon is with me. He sits on my shoulder during the day and breathes fire on my neck. At night, he claws into my dreams and makes hellish walls of magma and stone. And always, I can feel his bite crushing my chest tighter and tighter until I am breathless." Ruairidh's face was pale, his hand clutching at the healing wound on his breast. "I have felled men and even more Darkspawn, yet they never burned me as the Archdemon does now."

Zevran placed a hand on the Warden's shoulder. "And this is what ails you, my friend?"

Cousland put his own hand over Zevran's, a rare moment. "May I be frank?"

"Of course."

"I should not be the only one with this plague. It is a Warden's duty to slay the Archdemon, which Loghain did with honor. But there should have been three Wardens on Fort Drakon for that battle, and there should be two living now with the Archdemon in their breast."

"Alistair."

Ruairidh's face crumpled, his eyebrows knit. "Yes," he hissed. "Alistair. I carry this burden, but it could have been shared if that craven had upheld his duty. He should have equal part in this pain. But he fled, and I remained, and now it is I who must suffer for it. I cannot sleep, cannot eat, cannot even think. And that cursed wound on my chest won't close."

Mention of the injury set Zevran's imagination to work, as it always did. Cousland had forbade him from joining the battle on Fort Drakon. He'd only allowed his Mabari, Sten, and Loghain to accompany him, and they had paid the ultimate price. Ruairidh had not spoken of the battle in detail except to Anora and her court when she'd demanded it. The account had quickly circulated like wildfire, although each time it was told it gained new embellishments.

What remained with each telling was thus: Sten had fallen first. He'd blinded the Archdemon with a thrust of his great sword, but the dragon had smashed him full in the plate with its tail, sending him reeling off the tower. Ruairidh had been baiting the beast, setting Loghain up for the killing blow. But in its blind thrashing, the Archdemon had knocked Cousland from his feet. He'd stabbed its forked tongue and the roof of its maw, but the dragon would not be deterred from snatching him up and piercing armor and flesh with its searing teeth.

His screams had incited his Mabari, which had launched itself at the Archdemon's weak under throat in defense of its master. The hound's vicious tugging and tearing had finally gotten the dragon to release Ruairidh, but the Archdemon had no sooner released Cousland than it unleashed a river of hellfire from his maw to consume the dog. It was at that moment, as the Archdemon was turning to finish the young Grey Warden, that Loghain struck, driving his blade between the dragon's vertebral column and its skull.

Zevran recalled the bright light coming from the top of the tower, a beacon of victory. At that signal, the men had started cheering. But the assassin's heart had stopped. He'd thrown down his weapons so that he could run faster, and made for Fort Drakon. Apparently that beautiful victory light had transferred from the Archdemon and into Loghain, killing him instantly. Survivors of the queen's army that had been battling their way back into Fort Drakon arrived at the top of the tower first and found the only survivor, Cousland, unconscious and crushed, crumpled near the dragon's massive corpse. His entire rib cage had been shattered, most of his internal organs punctured or ruptured. Zevran arrived at the top of the tower as healers were beginning to pry off his deformed plate and leathers. Twenty bone-deep tooth marks wrapped around his misshapen torso in a perfect crescent. Fresh blood painted his flesh, and violent bruises quickly flowered all over his skin.

"These injuries would have killed a lesser man," an elderly healer had told him. "The lad is lucky to be alive."

Zevran had numbly agreed with him at the time. Now he was not so sure. Some wounds never healed.

The assassin sighed, freeing his hand from Cousland's to stroke the man's smooth cheek. "I should have been there with you," he murmured.

"You'd be dead, Zev. And then your debt to me would be paid. I cannot abide losing free service while it's in my power to do something about it." Ruairidh was not sentimental, but ever practical. He did offer a grim smile, which was more playful than he'd been of late.

"Your concern is truly touching," Zevran answered, "I don't think I ever fully repaid you for it."

Cousland's grey eyes searched the assassin, questioning. But when the other man went to plant a gentle kiss on his lips, his question was answered. Ruairidh slammed the elf into the nearest wall and began deeply kissing him with fervor. He had been bed-ridden for two months, and he had been confined to the great hall and his bed chamber another month. The first two months, he'd been as weak as a kitten, and sex had been a laughable notion. The third month, though, he was feeling strong enough to enjoy himself a little. But Zevran had acted the chantry boy, and denied him at every turn.

"I have been in agony," Zevran moaned as Ruairidh bit and kissed the curve of his neck. "It has been simply tortuous. Three months without a body writhing with my own—I am a fiddle in need of tuning."

A deep growl reverberated from Ruairidh's throat, which turned into a chuckle as he continued his ministrations to Zevran's pointy ears. "The queen has many fine fiddle tuners in her employ. They could have seen to your instrument."

"Ah, yes, this is true," he hissed, arching into the heat of Ruairidh's body. "But our orchestra must suffer in solidarity; I cannot get tuned while you remain dusty."

"That savors strongly of commitment, Zev," Cousland warned, backing him toward the bed.

The assassin laughed. "Fear not, my dear Warden. I am only committed to your bow on my strings." He collapsed onto the bed under the weight of the warrior man, and allowed himself to get lost in the warmth of the embrace.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The One that Stayed

Summary: For some, the Blight ended when the Archdemon lay smote upon Fort Drakon. For Ruairidh Cousland, it will never be over. Nightmares of the battle haunt him at every turn—nightmares that his brother-in-arms should share. But Alistair vanished after the Landsmeet. Now Ruairidh Cousland means to find him, and share in full the horror of the Archdemon.

Principal characters: m!Cousland, Zevran, Alistair

Genre: Hurt and betrayal, romance, friendship

Chapter: 2

Word count: 2237

Notes: Still in need of a beta. Reviews with constructive criticism are always welcome.

The following morning brought confirmation of what Zevran suspected had soured his Warden friend's mood. As was his custom, the assassin was up with the sun, and had slipped quietly from Ruairidh's chambers to break his fast. The great hall was empty of lords and ladies, and an infant fire was being provoked to life by one of the palace servants. He'd been contemplating goose eggs with hashed mulberries when a servant girl had brought him a folded piece of parchment. All thought of food dissolved as he read the message silently.

There had been talk of unrest in the east, of a certain large, raucous Theirin bastard stirring the smallfolk for a fight. People always took to Alistair easily, given his boyish honesty and humble origins. But Zevran had assumed talk of a rebellion had merely been outlandish speculation, far-fetched rumors the common people spread as a means of excitement. At least, that had been the assassin's hope.

He crumpled the piece of parchment in his right hand, and considered tossing it into the fire. After the Archdemon was slain, while Ruairidh was bed-bound, Zevran had hired some capable people to track the ex-Warden's movements and report on his involvements. This message was from them, and only served to confirm the quickly spreading tales of an uprising instigated by the bumbling man-child warrior. It would be easier to just toss the news into the flames and watch it dissolve into smoke. But Zevran knew Ruairidh would hear of it, regardless; the assassin was not the only one who kept his feelers out. He smoothed the paper out and tucked it into the breast pocket of his leather vest.

Appetite spoiled, Zevran pocketed a small loaf of honey bread for later and left the great room. It was not the best place for such sensitive musings; the queen had eyes and ears in the stones themselves, and Zevran preferred to operate without someone breathing down his neck. He made for the stable, which was also abandoned except for sleepy servants starting the day's chores. They brought him his stocky chestnut mare, a gift from the Orlesian Wardens to the companions of the Hero of Ferelden. Initially, the assassin had been wary of the large beast—elves were not known as the most capable riders. But the sure-footed little mare had proven herself reliable and steady, and the horse and the elf had been steadily building a rapport. He could hear the devilish creature the Orlesian Wardens had brought for Ruairidh, snorting and pawing in its stall. Cousland was only a passable rider, and he had not visited the stables since receiving that wild thing from his brothers-in-arms. Zevran was glad to have a less showy animal; he would exchange style for utility any day of the week.

With a little kick, Zevran coaxed his mare into the courtyard and through the palace gates. Denerim proper echoed with the sounds of construction, but his horse did not shy at the noise. He passed comfortably down narrow alleys and wider thoroughfares at a steady trot, and soon found himself beyond the city walls. He stopped the horse at a small pond, maybe half an hour away from the protective walls of Denerim. The assassin dismounted and allowed her to graze, while he sat beneath the shade of a young oak tree. A tiny paddleboat floated lazily on the still surface of the water, and a fisherman with his pole sat on the bench seat, considering the water intently.

Zevran called out to the man, "Gentle sir, have you caught any fish?"

The man looked at the assassin from under a broad-brimmed hat. "Aye," he replied amiably enough, "but only the one, and 'twere sold before you even come, mi'lord. Mayhaps you wait there at ease, mi'lord, and I'll catch another afore too long. I've a notion, should grab up a fish afore the hour is up."

At the fisherman's recommendation, Zevran waited beneath the tree and honed his daggers on a whetstone. After they were razor-sharp, he set in on his honey cake, a little crushed by the ride, but still delicious. And, as promised, the fisherman had a bite before the assassin had thoroughly licked his fingers of the crumbs. A man on horseback approached at a gallop up the thoroughfare, leaving a swirl of dust in his trail. The fisherman immediately paddled to a small dock, and hopped out of the boat to meet the now dismounting man. They exchanged curt words, and the rider reached into his leather coat to withdraw a folded piece of parchment. He loitered a moment to allow his steed to gulp up some pond water before quickly remounting and going the way he came. The fisherman waddled over to Zevran beneath his tree.

"We're agreed on the usual price?" the fisherman asked as he held out the piece of parchment.

In response, the elf pulled a drawstring leather pouch from an inner pocket of his vest. He tossed the jingling bag to the pock-faced man, who caught it with practiced ease. The paper was passed to Zevran in exchange. "Mi'lord will remember to think fondly of a humble working man," the fisherman said as he shoved off back into the pond.

"Mi'lord always does," Zevran murmured, bowing civilly to the fisherman's back. He tucked the parchment into an inner pocket of his leather vest, mounted up, and rode his trusty mare back the way they'd come. The grooms rushed out to meet him as he neared the stables, and the assassin allowed them to take the horse for care. He had far more important things to do, and now his mind was clear to do them.

By now, it was well into the morning. Ruairidh would be up, no doubt. Hopefully in a better mood than the day before. Zevran had done his best to unwind the man in bed, but he could never predict how the Warden would act. The mood swings had only gotten worse after the Blight ended, and Ruairidh hadn't exactly been stable to begin with. The loss of his entire family, especially his beloved older brother, had left him sullen and short-tempered. The family-like structure of their traveling company had seemed to help the grieving man slightly. But they were all gone now. Dead or else off to meet their own fate. All but Zevran. He told Ruairidh it was because he still owed a life debt, which was more or less true. But the heart of the matter was that, unlike the others, Zevran had nothing to go back to.

So he stayed.

The great hall was populated by a few lesser ladies breaking their fast, Zevran noticed as he passed through on the way to his chambers, but Ruairidh was still absent. It was hard to tell if a late morning was a good or bad thing for the turbulent man. Perhaps he was finally getting some much needed rest, despite his exclamations to the contrary. The idea of the large man sprawled out in bed, snoring, made Zevran smile.

Once in his chambers, he called for some wine and seated himself before the hearth in an over-stuffed chair of burgundy. When the servant had come with his wine and gone, door closed behind, Zevran slipped the parchment from his pocket to read the message.

As he feared, it once again concerned Alistair. Apparently, he now had his own army, a mob of mercenaries and smallfolk that liked to call themselves the Bastard's Men. Zevran sighed and took a pull of wine straight from the bottle that had been left. A thousand men were in this army, the Bastard's Men, at the time the note had been written, but it had doubtless grown in the days of transit.

One thousand men, especially the untrained part of that force, were not a particular threat. But people _liked_ Alistair. One thousand was just the beginning. Dismiss him now, and he would soon have a formidable horde. If Anora was to keep her crown—and, more to the point, her head—this rebellion would need to be put down swiftly, and without mercy. And he had a sneaking suspicion of whom the queen might send to lead this mission.

Zevran gulped down some more wine, but even the fine vintage tasted sour on his lips. He snarled and threw the bottle into the fire, watching the flames dance as the glass shattered. It was hopeless. Ruairidh needed to heal. He was so broken, and nobody seemed to see it but Zevran. At the very least, the man needed some time to lick his wounds. However, the assassin was beginning to doubt whether Ruairidh would ever be whole again. Whatever shreds of humanity he had left were precarious at best, and being forced to hunt down his old brother-at-arms might undo that.

Zevran wanted to cry for the futility of it all, but he was not in the habit of crying. Ever. He stared stonily ahead, not seeing the fire licking up the expensive liquor.

He could never pinpoint when he actually started to care about the Warden. Of course, he'd always tilted both ways, and Ruairidh was an attractive man. But at some point, it had meant more than sex to the assassin, and it had scared him. It still scared him. Presently, it made him more angry than scared. He was used to being able to detach himself from a situation, but it was impossible to detach himself from Ruairidh's fate now. And, to that end, Zevran would feel all the acute misery that the Warden felt.

As if thinking about him too much summoned him, there was a knock on the door, and Ruairidh poked his head in the chamber. He hadn't shaven this morning, and the lower half of his face was covered in dark, scratchy stubble. He was wearing one of his old, brown wool tunics, held in place by a worn leather belt. "Mind if I..?" he asked, voice husky from disuse.

"Please, come in." Zevran gestured to the matching chair beside his, and the Warden sat lightly on the edge, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He was silent, but his expression was thoughtful, and his eyes bright. Knowing that Ruairidh was not one to initiate conversation, Zevran began, "You looked like Mabari shit yesterday."

"Mm," the Warden agreed.

"Which is to say, I find you much improved this morning, my dear Warden." Zevran gave one of his cat-that-ate-a-canary smiles as he openly checked out the other man. "I am glad of it, for I mean to allow my gaze to linger today. And tonight."

Ruairidh raised his brow and his lips thinned, nearly a smile. "Tonight?"

"_Si, _you do not remember all the steps. We must practice, practice, practice. This is the Warden way, no?" Zevran sighed extravagantly, as if he were terribly burdened by the amount of work ahead. "How is a humble assassin to keep up?"

"I'm sure the right strokes will keep him up all night," the Warden murmured, his words dulled by his distracted gaze into the fire.

"Surely it is so," assented the assassin. "But this is not why you have knocked on my door this morning." Ruairidh's silence was confirmation enough. Zevran sighed again, this time in earnest, and tried to catch the other man's eye, but was unsuccessful. "You know," he started, hesitantly, "you have not requested a boon of the queen yet. If there are things you would not do, ask to be officially assigned Warden Commander. Anora cannot order the Warden Commander as easily as she can brandish about the Hero of Ferelden. You will be free of politics." _Free of her ordering you to kill Alistair._

"I supported Anora as queen, and I will not break my vows to shy away from unsavory orders."

"Asking to be reassigned before an order is issued would not constitute breaking your vows!" Zevran snapped, growing frustrated with Ruairidh's strict sense of honor.

"It would, given that I know an order is inevitable," he bit out, jaw clenching.

Zevran wanted to hit the Warden. "The queen has other men that can do the job serviceably. You don't have to do this!"

"Given your brigand's morals, I can understand why you don't value the sanctity of vows. But I am a Cousland, and more importantly, a Grey Warden. Honor is all I have, and I have given a pledge to obey and defend the woman I endorsed as queen. A highborn man knows his duty."

"Oh, _si_, Howe demonstrated a highborn man's sense of honor quite well on the night he betrayed your family."

Ruairidh froze in his chair, fists clenching at the arms. Suddenly, he stood, the chair flying back and smacking the foot of the bed. He turned to glare down at Zevran with wild eyes, and spat, "Never speak of that filth again." Without another word, the Warden stalked from the bed chamber, slamming the door behind him.

Inside his chest, Zevran's heart was ramming against his ribs. The moment those words had slipped from his tongue, he'd been afraid. Of what, he was not entirely sure. Ruairidh would never actually hurt him. Would he? With hands shakier than he would have liked, he grasped the slender crystal goblet the servant had brought for the wine and swallowed its contents.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The One that Stayed

Summary: For some, the Blight ended when the Archdemon lay smote upon Fort Drakon. For Ruairidh Cousland, it will never be over. Nightmares of the battle haunt him at every turn—nightmares that his brother-in-arms should share. But Alistair vanished after the Landsmeet. Now Ruairidh Cousland means to find him, and share in full the horror of the Archdemon.

Principal characters: m!Cousland, Zevran, Alistair

Genre: Hurt and betrayal, romance, friendship

Chapter: 3

Word count: 2539

Notes: There is a sex scene in this chapter, but I have relocated the explicit details to a separate story, No Talking, Just Touching. That story will have all the explicit scenes from this story. I feel that they're not necessary to enjoy the story, and continuity flows fine when they're separated from the main rhetoric. However, they can be fun. So, if you want to read what goes on in the bedroom, look to No Talking, Just Touching.

The morning the council convened was overcast with a slight drizzle. The lords and ladies of Ferelden sat in the council chamber miserably, their finery damp and chill. A great fire crackled opposite a large bay window, but its heat didn't radiate to the entire table. Goblets of mulled wine were served, along with a selection of cheeses and breads, but the noblemen were too uncomfortable to consider stuffing their faces. They sat at their respective places around the table, silently condemning Andraste for the wretched weather. The only noise was the muffled sound of tiny droplets striking the thatched castle roof.

"Her Majesty, Anora Mac Tir, widow of King Cailan Theirin, first of her name, rightful queen of Ferelden," the herald announced at the southern door, and everyone rose from their chair with a loud scrape.

Anora strutted into the room like a peacock, looking down on all her sworn lords and ladies despite her diminutive stature. She liked to be late to council sessions; it was not for the queen to wait on her subjects. And it reminded them exactly who held the reins of the country. A pleasant smile was plastered across her face, and she graciously bade everyone to sit once she'd delicately placed herself at the head of the long table. She looked the part of queen, in a teal silk gown encrusted with yellow diamonds. Most notably, the dress was completely dry, and more than a few sodden ladies sniffed with contempt.

"My gentle lords and ladies," the queen began, regarding everyone with her cloying smile, "I thank you for braving the horrendous weather to be at this gathering. I have called you all here at this odd hour," odd being about five in the morning, "to hear my judgment on a matter of utmost importance. As you all well know, a usurper is rising in the east. Alistair, the Theirin bastard, and former companion to the Hero of Ferelden is trying to steal my rightful throne. The smallfolk are confused, and flock to him; after all, he has Theirin blood, however diluted, and can claim to have been a companion of the Hero of Ferelden."

She looked at each of her lords and ladies, gauging their loyalty by their expressions. Most looked tired and miserable, a few shining with agreement, and a few still looking very solemn. "This traitor to the crown needs to be dealt with swiftly and openly. The smallfolk need to know that treason is not trifled with, nor are those who commit it. I want these Bastard's Men dispersed and I want Alistair brought here for his queen's justice."

The room fell silent except for a few errant sniffles and the pitter of rain against the glass windows. The fire spat, as if to break the silence, and Anora looked to the herald expectantly. He caught her look and opened the same door the queen had entered through, announcing the arrival of, "Teyrn Ruairidh Cousland of Highever and Amaranthine, son of Lord Bryce Cousland, Grey Warden and Hero of Ferelden."

Nobody rose as the young man trudged into the room in full decorative plate. The chest plate was rough grey iron and carved with the likeness of the Cousland sigil, two olive branches crossed. The rest of the armor was likewise made of rough grey iron, although the helm tucked under his arms had been enameled with a grey griffon as the sigil of the Grey Wardens. Ruairidh stopped beside the queen and knelt dutifully. She bade that he rise and stand beside, which he did without a word.

As usual, his expression was grave, and a fearsome aura emanated from the young man, causing the other nobles to look away. His brow sat low, as if considering something unpleasant, and his lips were pulled heavily by gravity. He was clean shaven, as the queen liked him to be, but he'd allowed his hair to grow to an unruly dark mop. His grey eyes were narrowed and unseeing of the people before him, and they glinted onyx in the fitful firelight. The man was intimidating in his own right, but a heavy broadsword hung at his hip, nearly of a height with its master. The combination made Cousland simply frightful.

"There is only one man the smallfolk love more than Alistair, and that is the true Hero of Ferelden," Anora rang out in a clear voice, eyes burning with conviction, contrived or otherwise. "An army led by Queen Anora would be an act of tyranny, but an army led by Ruairidh Cousland, Hero of Ferelden, would be an act of patriotism. For these reasons, I give the command of my armies to Teyrn Cousland, and charge him to put down the rebellion in the east using any force necessary. Do you accept my orders, Teyrn Cousland?"

Ruairidh drew his blade with a hiss and laid it at Anora's feet as he knelt again. "I am honored, your Grace. I will see you and your lands safe. I will disperse the enemy armies. And I will bring Alistair for your justice. This I do swear upon my life."

"Rise, Teyrn Cousland," Anora exclaimed. Her court applauded as if on cue. "I graciously accept your service. And now, I must insist you take your place at the table. A feast has been prepared in your honor. Enjoy the company and the fire, for I would have you march on the morrow."

Ruairidh was ushered to the only empty seat at the table, the one that had been reserved for him since the end of the Blight. He'd managed to dodge all council meetings to this point, but could hardly escape this affair. He was forced to sit between two banns, one old and coughing, the other young and nervous. They chatted incessantly and asked him questions throughout the meal. He did his best to answer as tersely as possible; he was not here to make friends. They did not seem to grasp his discomfort, and continued asking questions about the fight on Fort Drakon. When a Qunari slur followed a statement about Sten, Ruairidh grew angry. He muttered an excuse and stalked away from the table, all the eyes of the court following him except for Anora, who continued to nibble on a turkey leg. They all flinched as he slammed the north door behind him.

The door opened onto a small landing at the top of a staircase. Another flight ascended higher next to the first set of stairs. The landing was sparsely decorated with a stained glass window of azure and gold, a rusty candelabra, and a wooden bench, upon which sat an elf industriously whittling a woman's buxom figure into one of the bench legs. He did not pause to look up as Ruairidh stormed out of the council chamber, and approached in all his might and fury.

"What are you doing here, Zevran?" Ruairidh snarled.

The tan elf kept his eyes on his work as he smiled demurely. "I am carving."

"I can bloody well see that," the warrior muttered. "Why are you carving here?"

"The light is good. And this bench was looking very… Ferelden. I thought to improve upon it."

"There is plenty of other furniture throughout the castle to vandalize. Why are you vandalizing this specific bench?"

"I told you, my dear Warden: the light is good."

Ruairidh fumed for a moment as the elf continued to calmly etch a curvy thigh into his work.

"Perhaps you should ask me directly if I was eavesdropping," Zevran suggested, brushing some shavings out of his view.

After a begrudging grumble, Ruairidh asked, "Were you eavesdropping?"

Zevran smiled widely as he looked up. "Of course."

They looked at each other in silence for a moment, the tension nearly palpable. Finally, the warrior sighed and crouched beside the elf, examining the wood. "It's good work," he admitted, looking at the flow from chest to belly. "Where did you learn to carve?"

The elf hummed to himself in pleasure at the compliment. "I have never formally learned to do much of anything outside of being an assassin. What I know of carving, music, poetry," he tapped his head lightly with the knife, "comes from there." He returned his eyes to the woman and began stroking a navel out of her fecund belly.

They were silent for several minutes as Zevran finished his work, blowing the dust and shavings away once done. Now, one of the bench legs was a very voluptuous woman from neck to toes, twisting with some unseen pleasure. He rarely had an opportunity to express his creativity, but when he did, he never included faces in his human studies. It was a little off-setting that the woman didn't have a head, as if she had gotten up to dance after a rendezvous with a guillotine. It was beautiful nonetheless, if a little eerie.

"Come, my dear Warden," Zevran commanded gently as he stood and pocketed his carving knife. Ruaridih stood beside him, his expression curious but thankfully lacking mistrust. "I have something for you to see."

The pair snaked through the castle and into the courtyard while they exchanged pleasantries. Ruairidh was sufficiently calm by now; clearly, today was a good day. All memory of the unpleasant council meeting seemed distant in his mind as they chatted about the drizzle, the progress of reconstruction, and the prospect of buying a new pair of boots. It was almost like before the Landsmeet, where he and Ruairidh could rib and jest for hours on the road. Almost. A dark shadow still clung to the warrior, even if it was temporarily at bay.

They entered the stables and instantly Ruairidh grew suspicious. "I'll not be riding that shriek of a horse, Zevran," he growled, setting his chin at a stubborn angle.

The elf grinned wolfishly. "I did not know you to be afraid of Darkspawn. But I must insist you give your beast another try. You will find him somewhat… relaxed."

In the dim light of the barn, a stable boy emerged leading the tall, black creature. It snorted at the sight of the warrior, but otherwise proceeded without issue. The groom stopped him in front of Ruairidh, and the two forces eyed each other.

"Why isn't he trying to bite me?" the warrior asked, narrowing his eyes at the animal.

Zevran chuckled. "He is actually a fair creature, given some training and… physical modification."

Ferelden had a strange disinclination for horses, so most of their hardy people didn't know how to handle them. There were more horses in Antiva, but it was Orlais that truly loved the hoofed beasts. Once it was clear to Zevran that he would be unable to convince Ruairidh to escape hunting Alistair, he decided to at least improve the mount he would inevitably have to ride into war. It wouldn't do any good to have the general thrown from his horse and end up with a broken leg before the campaign began. So he found an Orlesian horse master and employed his services.

"Modification?" Ruairidh echoed. Of course he would get caught up on that.

The elf shifted on his feet. "It is hard to find a delicate way to say this. It is ancient Orlesian horse wisdom that a stallion with too much fire must be made a gelding. That is, your poor horse is a eunuch now."

Ruairidh stared at Zevran with typical Ferelden horror. "You had my horse _castrated_?"

The assassin shrugged. "You were not going to put him out to sire. And you will find him a much more suitable mount now. Come, ride him a turn and, if you disagree, feel free to punish me in any way you see fit." A mischievous smile followed.

Ruairidh's pupils dilated, and Zevran feared for a moment that it was not the horse that was presently going to be ridden. But after a stiff moment, the warrior swung up gracelessly into the saddle and gave the horse a kick. Both the elf and the stable boy backed away as horse and rider became a black streak and disappeared thundering down the street.

A nervous laugh escaped Zevran. He and Ruairidh hadn't had sex since the first time after the Warden's recovery weeks ago. They had passed each other in uncomfortable silence and spoken only when necessary. Zevran had tried a few more times to convince Ruairidh not to go, but that only led to fighting. Since admitting defeat, Zevran had been spending more time preparing for the journey, trying to stay proactive. His preparations were not limited to the Warden's horse. He had been gathering a small group of private mercenaries, and once he finished testing their loyalty, he would have them act as Cousland's personal guard. The assassin didn't trust the men in the queen's army; those men had been Theirin men, and he could see how easy it would be to send a stray arrow through Ruairidh's heart. They didn't want to fight Alistair, and they certainly didn't want to kill him. That might put Ruairidh in jeopardy. The elf knew the young man wouldn't agree to have a personal guard, but Zevran had a few ideas on persuading the stubborn Warden.

The clack of hooves alerted him and the groom that Ruairidh had returned. The man's face was whipped red from the wind and rain, but he was grinning fiercely and patting the horse's thick neck. The beast was snorting eagerly, clearly ready for more. Ruairidh slid from the saddle when the stable boy grabbed the reins and snatched Zevran up into a big, crushing hug. It was uncomfortable to be smashed against decorative plate armor, but the assassin was elated that the Warden was this happy.

"That was bloody amazing!" Ruairidh exclaimed as he gestured to the horse being led away. "He is still a devil, but now he's my kind of devil!" The Warden released him and clapped him on the shoulder, scrunching his nose with mirth. "All horses should be castrated!"

Zevran grinned cheekily. "Then there would be no more horses, my dear Warden."

They silently enjoyed the moment before Ruairidh straightened and gazed at Zevran thoughtfully. "You've accepted that I'm going," he stated.

The elf nodded. "I have accepted that you're going, and that I'm coming with you." Instantly, Ruairidh's expression dropped. He was going to protest, but Zevran cut him off. "Someone has to protect the men from you, and I have quite a bit of experience in this matter. Besides, I have been missing my flea-ridden bedroll. I'd grown rather attached to it during the Blight."

Ruairidh wrinkled his brow in frustration, but didn't say anything. Instead he leaned into the elf and pressed his lips to his. The contact of skin was blazingly hot, but everywhere else was miserably cold from the misty rain. Zevran curved his body into Ruairidh's, trying to nestle in the larger man's warmth, but instead found himself pressed up against wet armor. The movement provoked a growl from the warrior and they both parted to stare at the decorative plate in irritation.

"This is why I prefer leather," Zevran murmured, and Ruairidh chuckled in agreement.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: The One that Stayed

Summary: For some, the Blight ended when the Archdemon lay smote upon Fort Drakon. For Ruairidh Cousland, it will never be over. Nightmares of the battle haunt him at every turn—nightmares that his brother-in-arms should share. But Alistair vanished after the Landsmeet. Now Ruairidh Cousland means to find him, and share in full the horror of the Archdemon.

Principal characters: m!Cousland, Zevran, Alistair

Genre: Hurt and betrayal, romance, friendship

Chapter: 4

Word count: 4460

Notes: Going to try a new narrative approach. Present action will be interspersed with past-reflection. Indicated by dashes.

The queen's army snaked along the bleak Ferelden road for a good half mile, and was punctuated by a sigh of dust. Beyond the dust was an even longer train of camp followers—the washers, cooks, and whores that made a living off of traveling armies. It was with this motley crew that Zevran presently shambled along.

The suggestion had come from Anora while she'd been privately debriefing Ruairidh. The assassin had followed Ruairidh into the parlor and stood by the window, as was his custom, and the queen had made a comment about the Warden's slinking whore. Heated words had followed, with Zevran trying to diffuse the fight. It ended with the queen hissing that no soldiers would follow a man that took an elf-slave into his tent at night and with Ruairidh storming out of the chamber, Zevran hot on his heels.

Despite her lack of tact—something she'd seemed to lack ever since she'd gained the upper hand over Cousland—the woman had a point. The Hero of Ferelden had an image to protect, an image that automatically earned the trust of the men following him. Having an Antivan, elfish lover would seem weak and unpatriotic at the least. Ruairidh had continued to grumble that he didn't care, and the two had parted ways uncomfortably at the gates of Denerim.

It had only been two days since the army set out, but the ache in his thighs and sores on his ass begged to differ. He tried padding his leather saddle with a spare cloak, but it didn't do anything besides twisting up uncomfortably in his crotch. He wondered if Ruairidh was fairing any better with his riding, but thought of the ornery Warden only made him glum.

The scouts and mercenary men he owned reported back regularly on the Warden. _He seems a bit stiff, _they said, or, _He ate three rations for breakfast. _Not exactly the information Zevran wanted, but the assassin did not want to discourage their enthusiasm in reporting the truth. However, even these small glimpses of the man were painful; it was as if Zevran could only watch the Warden through a glass window.

They halted briefly for lunch, just as the camp followers were coming to the top of a steep hill. Below, the valley stretched golden into the distance. Clouds swollen with rain gathered overhead and lightning played off the mountains far to the north. The westerly breeze from the Amaranthine Ocean shoved the squall ever closer.

The elf chewed on a leathery piece of ham as he watched the storm gods play dice. They would be encountering some unpleasant riding very shortly. Freezing rain that would turn the road into a river of sludge two feet deep was falling fast and thick to the north and the east. The storm appeared only to grow worse beyond that. He was suddenly very grateful to be on his mare, despite the saddle sores.

They pressed on just as the first licks of rain tickled iron helms. It was musical, almost like the playing of bells. But it quickly turned into a downpour, and the music became a cacophony of ringing metal. Everyone, from highborn commander to washing girl, was immediately soaked. The trail turned to mire, and baggage carts and supplies slid about in the mud. Still, the Fereldens marched on with stoic expressions and steady feet.

Zevran pulled his cloak tightly about him, though the sodden wool did little to warm him. The weather seemed determined to make the assassin miserable. It was not likely to get better. The column, he'd been informed, was going to stay off the road for the majority of the journey. Once they got to the Hinterlands, they were going to scale the Frostbacks with only the stars and some rangers' wisdom to guide them. A chilling prospect.

Ahead, there was a clamor of weapons and shields drifting through the rain. Zevran pulled his horse up and gazed to where the head of the column would be, but could not see more than a hundred feet before him. Beside him, the camp followers were grabbing knives and pitchforks, looking amongst themselves anxiously.

Two of Zevran's men came running up, breathless, feet heavy with sludge. "An attack, mi'lord!" one called. This sent the camp followers into a panicked frenzy, but the assassin kicked his mare and headed toward the commotion.

He didn't know who could possibly be attacking the royal army so close to Denerim, but he did not really care. His only thoughts were of Queen's men at Ruairidh's back. He drew his knives and pressed the horse on.

Mud spattered as the pony flew down the line. Men shrieked in confusion and slid out of the way. The sound of battle became clearer, and Zevran could see the outlines of combatants through the rain. It suddenly became clear who the attackers were.

Hundreds of wolves slammed against the column with such savage ferocity that Zevran's mare screamed at the sight. Four wolves caught her scent and lunged toward her. The assassin slid from the saddle and rammed his left pommel into the skull of one, driving the blade of his right through the chest of another. The other two jumped over him and leapt onto the horse, tearing into her. More men from the column pressed forth, and an arrow burst through the skull of the wolf ravaging her neck. She managed to buck the other off, and she galloped off in the confusion.

Zevran finished the two he had already injured just as another knocked into him, sending one of his knives spinning. He rolled with the blow, dragging his remaining blade through its ribs. The beast snarled and crumpled into a heap. But it seemed as though three took its place.

Zevran could feel his heart sink as he surveyed the tide of bristled pelts. He did not have long to contemplate the enemy, however. Five more wolves charged forth. He put one down, and two more were felled by column archers. The other two plowed into him, missing his face only because of the competition between the two to kill him. He drove his knife through the snout of the first set of teeth to snap at him, but wasn't quick enough to protect against the second.

Iron-clad jaws enveloped his head and began crushing his skull. His vision became stars briefly, before black enveloped him.

* * *

It had been two weeks since the assassin's induction into the mismatched band of adventurers, but it had only taken him a day to single out the younger Grey Warden as the subject of his newest conquest. He was handsome, in a brutish, barbaric sort of way. He had a wild mane of whiskers that he kept in no particular order, and a patchwork of scars where flesh was not covered by armor. He did not speak, unless to issue an order; what he did not say was more significant in many ways. His shoulders were always slumped, brow furrowed. He took late-night watches, and never parted from his great sword.

In the assassin's experience, a man with nothing left to lose was a rare dish.

After eyeing each other all night across the campfire, it did not surprise the elf when the feral Warden appeared in his tent. He didn't say anything, just stood over the reclining elf in all his bulky warrior glory, arms crossed over a stained wool tunic. Really, he didn't need to say anything.

When both men were fully spent—a feat to have satiated the insatiable Zevran Arainai—Ruairidh pulled his clothes back on. Sprawled naked beside him, the elf watched him dress. Finally, he could stand it no longer.

"How old are you, Cousland?"

The Warden frowned. "Why?"

"I do not know. Curiosity. Enigma excites me."

A smirk. "Then it would not benefit me to indulge your curiosity." He stood and made to leave, but hesitated at the tent flap. "I will be eighteen on my next name day," he said quietly. Then he left.

* * *

"Form ranks!" shouted a voice above the elf. "Shields, to the front! Archers, draw! Notch! Loose!" A whiz of a thousand arrows filled the sky, punctuated by pained howls.

"Draw! Notch! Loose!" More arrows. More whines. The scrabble of claws against shields.

"Draw! Notch! Loose!" More arrows. Fewer whines.

"Draw! Notch! Loose!" More arrows in the sky than rain.

"Draw swords! Prepare to charge!" Metal hissed. "Charge!"

Senses began to filter in again too quickly. The earth shook as the army broke to destroy the remaining wolves. It was quick work cutting down the rest. They fell with little resistance, and a cry rose among the men as the last wolf was slain. At first it was indistinct, but it soon resolved as, "Hail Ruairidh Cousland, Hero of Ferelden, Wolf-Slayer!"

The assassin struggled to sit up, but his head felt like a big ball of lead, and he fell back into the mud. Rain pounded on his already aching forehead. He breathed deeply, trying to clear the mental fog, but it did not help. He lied there, hoping no one would step on him.

"Zevran!"

The elf cracked his eyes open to see a helmed man kneeling over him. The man removed his helm breathlessly, and a sweat, mud, and rain-spattered Ruairidh stared down at him with wide eyes. The young man appeared as he had in the old days, with a good half inch of stubble clinging to his mug and enemies' blood splattered across his breast plate. In other words, he looked alive. The idea made Zevran smile, which he instantly regretted. Pain lanced up through his temples in angry, white streaks.

"Zevran, what are you doing up here? You're supposed to be with the camp followers!"

That made the elf chortle weakly. "I see you've taken Anora's advice to heart."

"Bugger that golden bitch," the Warden snarled. "I would have had you up here regardless of her bloody rules, but I didn't want _this_ to happen." He gestured to the assassin's freely bleeding head. He groaned and put his face in his hands. Several healers swarmed to him, and he directed them to treat the elf.

Zevran protested. "I am not about to die; go treat those whose care is more urgent." When Ruairidh didn't argue, they passed on to tend others. "Now you must go see to your men as well," he insisted, forcing himself to sit up as he grasped the young man's arm. "You cannot sit here by my side and nurse me. You must command your men, make the necessary camping arrangements. They will want to see your face after this battle. Morale is shaken by surprise attacks."

Clearly, the Warden wanted to argue, but just at that moment, several men approached him with questions and concerns. He glanced at Zevran sitting in the mud before reluctantly turning to more important matters. This left the elf utterly alone in the midst of shaken humans, meaning he was more or less the only help he was getting. Luckily, his head had cleared more by this point, and he was able to stand. The pain was still excruciating, but the assassin was able to steel himself this time.

Using the supplies he kept on his person, he cleaned and dressed the wound, several ridiculous swathes of linen wrapped around his forehead. Then, he stood shakily to survey the battle field.

All around, wolf carcasses piled the ground high. Those wounded that could hobbled toward the healers. Others struggled in the mud, crying in agony. The healthy men walked about the carnage, some dragging the maimed to healers, others starting the tiresome process of lining up the dead. It would not do to bury them; the ground would fill up with water before a single grave could be dug. Nor could they burn them without wasting precious kindling. Might be that the crows would feast tonight.

Not inclined to help with manual labor, Zevran searched for his horse. The little mare had bolted in sheer terror. He suspected she'd either run clear back to Denerim, or else a wolf had felled her. He staggered around for an hour, looking—really, she was one of the few horses in the column, so how hard would it be to find her?—but she did not turn up alive or otherwise.

As he searched, he thought on the attack. Stacking the specifics, it grew odder and odder. Although wolves were pack creatures, he'd thought they lived in packs of only ten or fifteen. Of course, they were Ferelden animals, and he could be mistaken. But he'd never heard of them being so aggressive. During all his time in Ferelden during the Blight, not a single wolf had bothered the small company. These beasts had fought as if caged. But what was the significance, if any?

Tired, cold, hungry, and hurt, the elf gave up looking for the pony and returned to the back of the column. He was surprised to realize he missed the little creature. Her shaggy mane and deep, brown eyes were familiar and comforting, and it would be a long night without her standing vigilant by his side. He'd have to see to a new bedroll and rations, since she'd made off with his.

Coming to the top of the ascent, where the camp followers had halted, a set of big, brown eyes peered at him expectantly. There, in her normal spot in the column, stood the chestnut mare. She snorted as he approached, as if chastising him for taking so long. He was torn between hugging her and smacking her. He settled for giving her a bag of feed to munch on, and taking a look at her wounds.

The wolf that had gotten her throat had left a deep, ragged wound that still oozed blood. The others were superficial. Zevran wondered how ridiculous it would seem if he asked for a healer for the horse, but he was concerned the neck wound was too deep to heal on its own. For now, he cleaned it and wrapped it. She was content to eat while he worked, and when she finished one bag, he gave her another.

* * *

It became a nightly thing. After the Warden's watch, he would wordlessly appear in the assassin's tent, and the two would go at it until the even the sky began to blush. Always, afterwards, the young Warden would redress and return to his own tent to sleep. That suited Zevran just fine.

If their campmates were aware of the special relationship between the Warden and the assassin, they made no comment. The old healer became less chatty with Cousland, preferring to bestow her wisdom on a less hedonistic subject, but that seemed the only difference in the atmosphere.

Even he and the Warden still maintained distance throughout the day. Long marches were conducted in relative silence. Cousland headed the group, while Alistair brought up the rear. Zevran fell in the middle, surrounded by people who mistrusted him, except for Leliana—who was much too apt to trust people in the first place.

Long hikes in thin mountain air can tease the senses. So, at first, he thought he must be mistaken. But over time, the certainty grew in his stomach like a ball of mud: it was not Zevran Arainai that Ruairidh Cousland wanted to tumble with.

When they broke off for a rest, or for food, Cousland would watch his brother Warden. Not staring, per se. Little glances stolen in busy moments. Tending a cookfire, or gathering firewood, or telling a joke. Silent as ever, Cousland said no more to the other Warden than he did to anyone else in the party. It was not his way. But if Cousland was not madly in love with Alistair, Zevran was willing to eat his own cock.

It did not specifically bother the elf that he was not the object of the Warden's affections; rather, it bothered him to come in second to the bumbling man-child.

He took the watch with Alistair that night. They were on some precarious escarpment that seemed more suited to mountain goats than men. Flurries tugged at clothes and a chorus of moans echoed from the valley. The tents were set in a row, tightly knit; there was no room for any other formation. Their small watch fire was whipped this way and that by the temperamental wind; it produced little warmth for frozen hands.

The senior Warden seemed determined to carry out the watch in silence, like he was serving a prison sentence. Each attempt Zevran made to engage him, he was rebuffed with brusque cordiality. Alistair was as miserable company as the mountain climate. So Zevran figured he'd push him off balance.

"Have you ever held a man's dick, Alistair?"

The Warden jumped, as if he'd been doused with cold water. "What are you going on about?"

"Dicks. Cocks. Penises. And hands, I suppose. Have you ever held a dick in your hand? Besides your own, of course."

He could feel Alistair squirm. "Why are we talking about this?"

"Why not? We have many hours to pass, and you have not yet suggested a topic. I say we talk about this."

"Well, then, you first."

"Gladly. I've held many. They come in as many varieties as bitches and hounds. Long, short, thick, veiny, bulbous—now there's a fun Ferelden word. Our fearless leader's has been an exceptional specimen, though. What do you think?"

"Think about what?"

"Cousland's cock."

"Nothing. I mean, I don't think about that sort of thing."

"But do you think of Leliana's tits?"

"How can you not? Not enough room in that Chantry robe to hold them in."

Zevran reclined with a cat-like smile. "Yes, thank the Maker for tits."

* * *

It seemed they were camping there, so Zevran pitched his tent. He was about to retire when a soldier trotted up and bowed. "Teyrn Cousland requires your presence in his council, mi'lord."

So close to a warm, dry bedroll. "And I am to understand this to be immediate?"

The soldier looked confused.

The elf sighed. "Now?"

"Yes, mi'lord. Teyrn Cousland has called his commanders together in his tent. They are meeting as we speak."

Scowling, Zevran reluctantly agreed to follow the soldier back down to the front of the column. Order was being restored; tents were being pitched, and a few weak fires were sputtering to life. Even the battlefield had been cleared. The dead were in a long, eerie row, hands folded in front of them. The wolves were in several piles further away. Healings tents had been erected, and the wounded flocked.

Ruairidh's tent was hard to miss. It was twice the size of all the others, and emblazoned with the queen's royal sigil. Four men stood at attention outside, and begrudgingly granted Zevran and his escort entry out of the rain. Within, a heated argument was ensuing between mages, templars, and the queen's bannermen. Ruairidh was silent, but his eyes lit up when he saw Zevran. He found his voice. "Be silent!" His command filled the tent, and silence quickly fell.

"I did not call you here to squabble about duties and rights," he began. "I called you here to discuss what just bloody happened out there. I have never seen wolves behave like this before, nor in these numbers. They came out of the cliffs like a _swarm_. Hundreds, almost instantly, like they appeared out of thin air. And they savaged my men. I want answers."

His councilors looked uneasy. A graying bann said, "I've never seen the like, my lord." Others agreed quietly.

"Myself and a few of my men have discussed the possibility of this being mage-work," said the senior templar. Angry cries rose from the mages, and the templars responded, dragging in the bannermen once more. The tent devolved into shouting again.

Ruairidh drew his sword with a pronounced scrape of metal. "The next man who speaks out of turn loses his tongue!"

Silence reigned again.

Ruairidh regarded the nine mages present. "Tell it true: could this be the work of mages?"

They looked at each other. "My lord, it is not so simple. Mages have long worked with animals in establishing a singular—"

"Yes or no?"

After a moment, "A qualified no."

"Explain."

"Thank you, my lord. While a mage may direct the movement of one animal, it would require great skill, concentration, and stamina to control multiple animals—let alone a hundred. Additionally, only the most skilled may fully control an animal. Most mages can only suggest actions to another creature. Self-preservation easily overrides most suggestions. This was clearly suicide for these wolves; we had the greater numbers, so self-preservation would have deterred their attack. Yet these beasts not only attacked us, but attacked us with savage fervor. These factors together make it very unlikely that this was the work of a mage."

"What of many mages?"

"They would have to all be masters, and all orchestrate their magic at the same time. And even so, we would have sensed such powerful sorcery."

Ruairidh contemplated this new information. He did not speak, and his assembly grew restless. To avoid another argument, Zevran spoke. "We want many answers, my lords, but that will not make it so. We must reason out this oddity. To come to the answers we want, we must ask other questions in order to understand the nature of the beast."

A young bann snorted. "And I suppose you have the answers to these questions, knife-ear?"

The Warden rested the tip of his sword under the man's chin. "That is Zevran Arainai, the bravest and most loyal of my companions during the Blight. You would do well to remember his name." He nodded for the elf to continue.

"No, I do not have the answers to these questions. But I do know one of the questions we should be asking. _Why_? Assuming this was an unnatural attack, which it seems to these humble eyes to be—why attack us? Why attack us with wolves? And why perpetrate an attack that was so clearly doomed to fail? This is the avenue of investigation we need to be following."

"Aye," grumbled a grizzled templar. "What did the attack accomplish? Or what was it meant to accomplish? Clearly, it wasn't meant to defeat our army. The numbers don't add up."

"I think that we need to start taking stock of our situation," Ruairidh finally said, brandishing his sword. "We need to figure out who our dead are; maybe there was a single target."

The tent grew very quiet. The Warden looked about at his councilors, scowling. "Well, what is it? Speak up."

"You, my lord," said the young bann softly. "You were the target."

Ruairidh allowed the possibility of these words to sink in. It did not go well. "Not this shit again," he snarled, stalking out of his own tent.

The councilmen looked at each other in mutual unease. They weren't used to noblemen misbehaving. Zevran pushed past them, following Ruairidh.

The young man had not gone far, standing a few feet outside the tent. He was examining the mud with a high degree of interest, his hand still clenching his drawn sword. Men scurried around him, like water around a river rock. The assassin watched him for a few moments before approaching.

"Come," he murmured from behind, clasping the Warden's shoulder. The young man looked at him with those grey eyes, and it shocked the elf to find no protest in them. He silently turned and led them to the edge of camp.

Zevran was tensed for another shouting match, but in their seclusion, Ruairidh gently examined the wrappings on the elf's head. He frowned.

"Zevran, your skull might be cracked. You need a healer."

"Later, perhaps. I am in no mortal danger. This situation is more pressing."

The Warden inclined his head. "Do you think they're right? That I was being targeted?"

"It is not unreasonable. You are commanding a marching army of an unpopular queen. You, however, are a hero. The smallfolk would not support Anora without your leadership. Your death would benefit Alistair enormously."

"If they wanted me assassinated, why not hire the Crows?" _They_, not Alistair.

Zevran smiled. "The Crows have been largely ineffective at killing you, dear Warden. I stand as evidence. There are other guilds, though, and your query is a valid one. I wonder at that, too. If this was an orchestrated attack, there have to be simpler ways to go about it. It seems almost… impulsive in nature. Like the means meant more than the ends."

"The attack was a symbol?"

"Killing you was the motivation rather than the goal."

The Warden frowned. "All this speculation won't help. We need to act on what we do know. A wider perimeter and tighter watches will be set. Hounds will be positioned at the edges of the column. We won't be taken by surprise again, even if the enemy sends more bloody wolves." The _enemy_, not Alistair.

"I can appreciate a man of action," the assassin remarked, smiling demurely. "But I, too, must be a man of action now. At first light, I will ride for the Kinloch Hold to see what I can discover. The Circle is bound to have some old tome or another that can be used."

The Warden's face crumpled.

"I will meet you again just west of the Hinterlands, hopefully with some answers. I am no good to you here. I am not trained to fight in an army, nor can you afford to lose your prestige with your men. No, I can better serve your campaign by gathering information."

"You can better serve _me_ by staying." He leaned in, as if to kiss, but hesitated when their eyes met.

So unsure, something the young man had never been. "I will rejoin you after the Hinterlands."

Cousland straightened up, hurt betraying him. "You seemed only too eager to ride with me when we set out."

"I proved less capable of protecting you from Alistair than I thought." In many ways.

A face of stone. "The Hinterlands, then."

"Yes."

They stared at each other in silence. A rift a mile wide suddenly became apparent to the elf, and it occurred to him that he'd always known it was there in the back of his mind. What needed to be said fell into the pit, and dared not crawl out again. Everything else was just air—thin tufts of air.


End file.
